by Don Donovan
"Let's hope so. Just like you and I got results? Remember? Santos let us do pretty much what we wanted."
"We closed a lot of fucking cases."
"We did," she said. "And that's why we're trying out different partners with you. You're a sergeant now, so more is expected of you. You've got to have a partner who's on board with your methods. With our methods. Then and only then do we get results."
Vargas nodded. He was the choir she was preaching to and she was well aware that her position was a tricky one. Her former lieutenant — now Captain Santos — expecting big things from her. Expecting all eight of those files on her desk to rapidly make their way to the "closed" bin. As the first female homicide lieutenant in the history of the department, a lot of scrutiny would be on her, so she couldn't appear to be violating civil rights, or even appear to condone such violations from her detectives. So it all had to be done under the radar. Waaaaaay under, she thought. And on the QT.
That snapped her to a scene in the book she had just started reading. LA Confidential by James Ellroy. What was it? On the QT, and very hush-hush. She remembered having to look up "on the QT" and "hush-hush", but she was having to do that less and less these days. Her English was excellent, with very little accent, if any. But reading required a higher level of comprehension.
She'd only taken up reading about a year or so ago, after having found a few novels on a shelf in Vargas' apartment. Curiosity took over, and she bought a Michael Connelly book, 9 Dragons, the one with all the Chinks.
More books followed until she made the big step up to LA Confidential. She'd read snippets of Ellroy's work here and there and felt he was challenging her, slapping her across the face. Come on, bitch. Try to read my shit! You can't do it! It was like nothing she had ever imagined, his unorthodox use of hipster language written in jazz rhythms to tell the story.
Oh, and the cops! Nothing at all like the ones she'd been reading about. Harry Bosch, Hoke Moseley … none of those guys could find any room in Ellroy's novel. His cops were more like her. Her and Vargas. Just doing what they had to do to get the job done, even if it meant bending a branch here and there.
Vargas said, "How do you want to handle the payoffs? I mean, as far as Ray is concerned. Do we cut him in? What do we do?"
She ran it over in her head. They were getting a thousand a week each from Maxie Méndez, G-Man the Niggertown pimp, and Wilfredo Zayas, who took over Desi Ramos' drug territory around Dolphin Mall and MIA after Desi met with an unfortunate demise. Then five hundred a week from three other dealers. Forty-five hundred total, but half of it got kicked up to Santos, leaving eleven twenty-five each for Silvana and Vargas.
"Let's leave him out of it right now till we can cultivate some more producers out there. The streets are crawling with them. Once we get a little more coming in, we'll deal him in for his share."
Vargas nodded. He pointed toward the Nuñez file open on Silvana's desk. "Silvi, what's the deal with this Nuñez? This guy, he was just some scumbag pusher. Why are we paying any attention to this case?"
"His mother came to see me about a half an hour ago. I knew her when I was a teenager. Her daughter and I were best friends. Raúl here was a little younger, so I didn't know him too well, but we're doing this for his mother. She's a sweet lady and she's had a tough life. I want to do this for her. And for her daughter, who was also murdered years ago."
Clearly, Vargas was not buying into the significance of Raúl Nuñez's murder. He gestured toward the lined-up files on Silvana's desk. "But what about these other cases? Aren't there a couple that are more important? One or two maybe we could get to first?"
"Bobby," Silvana said with finality. "We're going full speed ahead with this one. I want it cleared, and fast."
Acevedo came back carrying a thick file. He had it open.
"Check this out, Lieutenant," he said. "Nuñez spent his whole life getting in trouble. Like he was trying to fuck up every step of the way. Like this." He read from the file. "DOB 11/30/81. First offense 1995, age fourteen. Possession of cocaine. Good for a six-month jolt. Juvie, of course. 1996, possession of cocaine with intent to distribute. Another three years in juvie. 2000, ADW …"
"Okay, okay," Silvana said. "I get the idea."
"But wait," Acevedo said. "That pinch I made on him last year? Marijuana possession? He made bail before the State Attorney decided to drop the charges. Who do you suppose signed him out?"
"Surprise me."
"Reese Kilgore."
The mention of Kilgore's name drew deep breaths from both Silvana and Vargas. Just a few months ago, a big real estate developer skated on a murder one charge after Kilgore "discussed" the matter with the State Attorney. When the clients of a seven hundred dollar an hour lawyer include a millionaire real estate big shot and a lowlife drug dealer, there's some shit under the covers.
Vargas said, "What the fuck is Kilgore doing anywhere near this Nuñez?"
"Maybe," Silvana said, "because Nuñez was a known associate of Jimmy Quintana."
"What the hell was Nuñez doing at the fucking Dobbs Hotel?" Vargas said. He couldn't hide his disbelief.
"That's the question, isn't it?" Silvana said. "Ray, you got any ideas?"
Acevedo shook his head. "Only that I know Quintana is top dog in Hialeah right under Maxie Méndez. If Nuñez is a KA of Quintana, maybe he was there doing a drug deal."
Silvana sat back in her chair and exhaled. "Maybe. But if Nuñez is working closely with Quintana, he's probably above doing dime bag deals in Niggertown. He's moving heavier weight."
Acevedo said, "Maybe he was moving weight at the Dobbs the other night."
"That could be," Silvana said, "but I don't know who in his right mind would want to go into the Dobbs Hotel carrying any significant amount of drugs — kilos or whatever. We'll find out. Bobby, you and Ray follow up on that lead. If Quintana doesn't already know who killed Nuñez, he's probably got a good idea." She held out her hand and Acevedo put Nuñez's jacket into it. After a quick glance at a few of the pages, she closed it and said, "Get going, guys."
Vargas gave Acevedo a head signal and they moved toward the door.
10
Jimmy
Hialeah, Florida
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
2:25 PM
THE LAST OF THE LUNCH CROWD AT CAFÉ Q-BANO paid their tab and was on their way out the door. Jimmy looked at them as they left. Party of four. All very slim, fit people. He looked at their check on the spindle. Two desserts. Not likely. He eyeballed the booth. The busboy was on his way over to clean it up.
"Lorenzo," he said to the busboy. "Espera un momento."
Lorenzo paused and Jimmy went to the booth. Plates, glasses, coffee cups, silverware … no dessert plates. He looked again at the check in his hand. Yelina's table.
He swung open the door to the kitchen. Yelina was standing around chatting with the chef. Jimmy said, "Come with me."
She followed him back to his office, a modest affair with a desk, a couple of filing cabinets, and not much else. He sat behind the desk. She remained standing.
"This party of four who just left," he said. "Their check says they had two flans."
"That's right," Yelina said. She was tall, on the lanky side, with a semi-pretty face. She held a confident posture, with the slightest bit of sassiness in her tone. Jimmy didn't miss it.
"Problem is, there were no flan cups on the table. How did you serve the flan to them? You just drop a scoopful into their hands?"
"I served it in cups! Like I'm supposed to." Still confident, but not sassy. Now defensive.
He said, "What happened to the cups?"
"How should I know? Lorenzo might have picked them up. Maybe the customers stole them."
Jimmy said, "Or maybe you never served it. Maybe you charged them for it and pocketed the money. Maybe you were going to adjust the check later on."
"Jimmy, I never —"
"This isn't the first time. I've seen this before on your c
hecks. Time for the fat lady to sing."
"I'm telling you, Jimmy. I didn't steal from you."
"You're fired, Yelina. Get out."
"Fired? Jimmy, I swear, I didn't do —"
"You heard me. Change back into your clothes and get out. Now." He stood up.
She recoiled, then moved back a step as if to dodge Jimmy, who might leap across the desk at her like a predatory animal.
After a few seconds of stillness, she turned and left, mumbling a curse.
Jimmy started in on some paperwork, when the door opened again. He was about to let Yelina have it, but it was two men. He'd never seen them before. They looked like cops.
"Jimmy," the shorter one said, and he wasn't all that short. "We're police officers. I'm Sergeant Vargas. This is Detective Acevedo. We'd like to talk to you."
A smile spread over Jimmy's face. "Sure, fellas. What's the problem? Was the piccadillo too spicy?"
"A little more serious than that," Vargas said. "Do you know a man by the name of Raúl Nuñez?"
Jimmy kept his smile. "Claro que lo conocí. What about it?"
"You say you 'knew' him. Why did you say that?"
"Oh, I read about it in today's paper. Terrible thing! Poor guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time, looks like."
Acevedo spoke. "Any idea why he was at the Dobbs Hotel Monday night?"
A head shake. "None at all. A dump like that, Raúl had no business in there."
"How do you know it was a dump?" Acevedo said. "You ever been there?"
"Me? Ha! Never! I read the address in the Herald and I knew. Badass part of town."
"You ever have any business connections with Nuñez?" Vargas asked. "Ever do any deals with him?"
"Deals? What the hell are you talkin' about? I own this restaurant. I manage it. The only deals I do are daily specials on our menu." He appeared to be through speaking, then he said, as though he had just remembered, "Come to think of it, now, Raúl did eat in here a time or two. I think he came in a couple of months ago, if I'm not mistaken. Yeah, now that I think about it, he did. A couple of months ago."
Acevedo said, "Any idea who might've wanted him dead?"
Another head shake. "I have no clue. Raúl was a real nice guy. No enemies as far as I knew."
"Where did you know him from?" Acevedo said.
Jimmy shrugged it off. "Around. I knew him from around, you know?"
"Don't bullshit us, Quintana," Vargas said, his face showing slight reddening. "Nuñez has a sheet that'll stretch from here all the way out your front door. We know he was in your organization. He unloaded a lot of yours and Maxie Méndez's cocaine. We know he was moving two or three keys at a time on a regular basis. Now who was he supposed to see at the Dobbs Hotel?"
"What is this, guys? What's all this talk about this Méndez guy? And you're talking about an organization? My organization is right here in my restaurant. The only thing I moved today was a waitress who was stealing from me. I moved her ass right out the door. I don't know from cocaine or keys or any of that shit."
"We checked his cell phone," Acevedo said, pulling out his notebook. "And it turns out he got two calls from you on Monday and he made one to you on Sunday. Over the last week, you two chatted no fewer than thirteen times. Not bad for someone you just know from around."
"Hey, who's keeping count?" Jimmy said. "I don't track my phone calls. I talk to a lot of people."
Vargas moved closer to the desk and leaned over it. He was only inches from Jimmy's face.
"Listen, asshole. You're skating on thin ice this time. You'd better be careful. Because we're coming after you."
Jimmy waved them out of his office. He never lost his smile.
11
Logan
Key West, Florida
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
5:30 PM
DOROTHY TOOK A COUPLE OF BABY SIPS from her beer and I knew something wasn't sitting right with her. Whenever she comes home from work, I always get a cold beer and bring it to her — if I'm home — and she takes it into the living room, drops onto the couch, and pulls a good, healthy hit from the bottle.
Baby sips? There's some shit stirring inside her for sure.
"What is it, babe?" I asked. "What's eating you?"
She looked at me with puzzled eyes. "What makes you think there's something eating me?"
"I can tell. Now what is it?"
Another tiny sip. "I been chewing on it all day at work and I don't like this deal you're looking at. Not one bit."
"I'm not crazy about it myself," I said. "I'm no killer."
"That's not what I'm talking about. And don't give me this 'I'm no killer' bullshit. You've smoked people before. I even helped you on one occasion."
"That was self-defense!" I said. "And so were the others!"
"Self-defense? Ha! In your dreams!"
"Those three people in Little Havana last summer were definitely self-defense. They all had weapons!"
She put the beer down on the coffee table. "Maybe so. But if this wheelchair bitch gives you over to the cops, that'll hold about as much water as a bucket with a big fucking hole in it."
I fidgeted with my beer, peeling the label back with a thumbnail. "What am I supposed to do then? Just sit back and let her run to the cops?"
"No," Dorothy said. "You kill her, not the dancer who dropped her. Now that's self-defense!"
My mind went back to yesterday afternoon in Islamorada. Hearing Laura Lee's painful story of how that guy let her fall and break her back deliberately. Seeing her find so little comfort in so much wine. Feeling her warm hand on mine. Squeezing it …
"I can't do it," I said. "It's got to be the dancer."
"What makes you think she's not gonna roll herself right into the nearest police station and tell her story?"
"She … I … she said she would forget all about that night in Little Havana. I believe her."
"Oh, sure," Dorothy said, sarcasm dripping out of her mouth like drool down a drunk's stubbled chin. "Today she wants you to waste the guy who broke her back. Tomorrow it'll be the guy who wrote a bad review of one of her ballets. After that, it'll be the guy who tried to feel her up in seventh grade."
"That's bullshit."
"Oh, you think so? You think you're not signing up for a lifetime commitment with this bitch. Like every time she needs something like this, she's not gonna call you? Hmph! Why wouldn't she?"
Because you weren't there, I wanted to say. Because all you know about her is what I told you, the bare-bones outline of her offer. Nothing more. Because if you were there, you would've seen Laura Lee Sánchez at her most vulnerable, someone who lived only for her art, not for any criminal activity. You would've seen a woman whose life has been taken away from her — oh, she's still breathing and eating and sleeping, as best she can, but her life, her art, has been stolen from her just as surely as if she had been murdered herself. You would've seen someone who wants to hire a killing only out of vengeance, and only this once, not out of any psychopathic urges.
Instead of saying all that, I said, "I believe her, all right?"
"You believe her? You're risking what might well be a murder one beef on that flimsy thread? What if I'm right? What if she calls you again one day with the same pitch? What do you do then?" Fury all over her face.
"That's not gonna happen, Dorothy. Now I'm gonna do what she asked and that's that."
She said, "You still don't get this, do you. You let her live, she'll be draped around your neck for the rest of your life." I said nothing. She said, "Okay. Have it your way. But put me down as a 'no' vote. I'm against it all the way."
She took a long, deep pull at her beer.
I didn't like any of this. I didn't like being asked by someone I don't know to kill someone else I don't know for reasons which didn't involve me in the slightest. I didn't like the idea of having to sneak up on a dancer and take his life. And I really didn't like Dorothy not being on the same page with me. This was the first ti
me that had ever happened.
And I didn't like it at all.
12
Silvana
Miami, Florida
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
10:55 PM
BOBBY VARGAS YAWNED OUT LOUD as Silvana turned their car off Northwest Seventh Street.
"Am I keeping you up, Bobby?" Silvana asked
"It's late. I've gotta get up in the morning."
"So do I," she said. "And I appreciate you coming with me. I know you could've come down here with Acevedo, but I wanted to come here myself. I would've come alone, but I figured this is someplace you'd want to be."
"Well, you bought me dinner, so this is the least I can do, I guess." Another brief yawn.
The Dobbs Hotel loomed up ahead on the left, its faint neon sign barely visible. Nobody on the street. No cars, nothing. Some light traffic back on Seventh, but it didn't penetrate this far down the side street. A light rain tapped the roof and wet the streets, forming small, dark pools near the curbs.
Silvana had called ahead and was told by the day manager that the night clerk who was on duty the night Raúl Nuñez bought it would be working tonight. Starting at eleven sharp. Silvana figured if he had a little bottle of courage in his drawer, she wanted to get to him before he got too deep into it. They parked in front of the hotel. Loading zone. Silvana had to laugh. They were barely wet by the time they hit the door.
One step into the small lobby and she nearly gagged. The cigarette smoke in the air was overpowering. Vargas coughed. No one was smoking, no one even there. The night clerk was just taking over from the evening shift guy. When he was alone, they badged him.
"Wh-what can I do fer ya?"
"We're here about the killing that took place two nights ago," Silvana said. "We understand you were working at that time."
"Y-yeah. That's right."
"What's your name?"
"Am — am I in any kinda trouble for this?"
"No, sir. Just give us your name, please." Silvana nodded to Vargas who pulled out his notebook, pen poised.
